Spring the Sacred
by htebazytook
Summary: Crowley, Aziraphale, and Stravinsky on the eve of WWI.


Title: Spring the Sacred

Rating: PG (for primitivism)

Setting: May 29th, 1913. Paris.

Warnings: Obscure Person Slash. And an overabundance of footnotes.

Disclaimer: --

Author's Notes: (I suppose this is set in the same universe as 'Firebird.') Of course there is a lot of historical _Good_ _Omens_ fic out there. Don't get me wrong, I like history, but I figured I'd take the marginally safer road this time with what I'm used to—music history. I'm afraid that that probably renders a lot of this somewhat cryptic, but fear not! I did a ridiculous amount of fact checking (cheating) online, so it's nearly all explainable via Wikipedia. Sadly, I didn't live during this time period, and so I'm sure I've managed to get things wrong, and I can only hope they don't stick out too dreadfully. My beta/goddess did give me some extra insight, so hopefully between the two of us (and all the books we've read), it resembles accuracy. Also note that there are one or two extremely minor (oh, haha), but intentional, historical errors. Sorry, but history was cramping my style. Yep.

All in all, Crowley was glad to get out of Germany. He'd done all he could think to do in terms of encouraging the wide array of –ism's thriving there, these days. Going to Paris was justifiable because it was probably high time he worked with a country from the opposing triple. Germany was bound to explode again sooner or later, as was Austria-Hungary, while Italy . . . didn't quite register as, well, serious. On the Entente front, Russia was cold, and Crowley wasn't keen on Britain getting itself into another war. And so, France.

He felt confident in Britain's ability to deflect any German attacks by sea, at least. Still, it wouldn't do to be hanging around in _either_ country if that Fisher bloke was halfway right.(1) As for justifying attending the ballet premiering tonight, well, they were Russians, right? So really he was killing two birds with one stone. And keeping what was more or less his home, at the moment, out of it.

Considering how This Decade In Russian Turmoil was going, Crowley wasn't surprised the little gaggle of artists had skipped the country while they still could. He approved of turmoil and repression, on principal, and of the aggressors themselves, figuring communism _had_ to be his side's. After all, they did go around promising equality and an end to monarchy—a bloody _utopia_.

Crowley knew utopia didn't mean anything.(2) Not that he was one for dwelling on the more than ancient past.

Crowley had seen the Ballets Russes before on a number of occasions. Aziraphale wasn't a fan of most of the music, as his tastes tended to gravitate around the year 1890(3), although the demon had finally managed to get him to admit Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's _Scheherezade_ was all right. Both of them were more than familiar with the _real_ story, after all. That crafty girl. And old Nikki had taught the up and coming composer of tonight's production. It was practically _obligated_ to exhibit some merit. Plus, he'd heard good things about _Firebird_, three years ago . . .

Knowing how to dress for this kind of shindig was second nature to the demon. Wearing expensive, black articles of clothing was easy, fun, and never went out of style. The demon figured that whenever he gave off a satisfactory impression of being a rich and charming, yet unattainable young bachelor, then he could call it a win.

The music wasn't bad either. And ballet was an interesting addition to it, although he was always privately unsure whether he quite _got_ _it_. He brought his opera glasses anyway as his eyes tended toward luminous.

Crowley glanced at himself in the tarnished mirror in his cramped hotel room (he could be cheap on occasion).(4) He looked acceptably dashing. It was time to get a move on. Outside of the world and inside of its own dirty white buildings, Paris awaited anyone crazy enough to pursue it.

On his way through the tiny lobby, Crowley was met with some French farewell or other. He couldn't even bring himself to respond, the sky had been so gloomy during the day.

The real Paris, the artistic philosophy, the philosophised art, was a slippery thing. It was more a state of mind than anything, and Crowley knew how easy it was to loose a concept that didn't actually make any sense. He left them like Christmas coal in Aziraphale's outdated china whenever they met for tea.

It was always easiest to recapture that intangibility on nights like this—in the springtime when the not-quite-darkness lends a forbidden excitement to various city fragrances. May was the only month that could get away with making the stench of the streets charming and the stench of politics all in good fun. It was like black on white, completely deceptive and effective and irritating. Crowley got sick of it, mainly because it _did_ register with him, and he was helpless against the sheer force of the spring. It wasn't just symbolism, this time of year, it was the origins of the symbolism—the world woke up annually and it was _exciting_. This was why it was beginning to peck away at Crowley's already fraying nerves. Spring was one of the few sacred human notions he was able to cling to without having to wrap his brain around something as convoluted as Parisian philosophy or Aziraphale's conversation. And the humans were letting the world down, in his opinion. The world looked out for Crowley, and consequently he wasn't keen on its getting needlessly pissed off.

In other words, the whole concept of spring was utter chaos in the demon's head.

As for the city itself, while night gave it a nickname, its face was just as familiar during the day. Rivers and temples—different human oases, in kind; and the rivers and _les_ _cathédrales_ still composed the demon's inner compass. One, he was naturally drawn to, the other, instinctually wary of. Crowley was crossing the Seine near the Gare d'Orsay, but Notre Dame was in the forefront of his mind, glaring at him around the river's jagged urbanised banks. He just let himself contemplate the collective crowd of cultured people he had again placed himself beside. It was comforting, in its way, but it also enhanced his isolation.

What the Heck. He _wasn't_ _human_. And the human face was all trampled over by heavy, stamping boots—for ever. Why should he be moping about? The only details of a human life these days seemed to be war details.

He stalked through the Garden. It was getting dark, but it probably wouldn't storm . . . yet.

Good awful job, Crowley, he thought. Awfully good job. Good bad—oh, for someone's—just a _god_-_awful_ one. Whatever.

He sauntered moodily on. The streets were so complicated he was sure they had to be expounding some Satanic message or other. He was vaguely sorry he hadn't come up with the idea first.

The proximity of the theatre was really tangible now in black-suited men and elegantly-gloved women ushering each other across the dingy streets. In the morning, before the sun was high enough to peek over the buildings and into the alleyways, these streets supported bright and early _boulangeries_, lazy hung-over lowlifes, and chicken claws clicking the cobblestones awake. All through the day, workers and mothers toted each other and their offspring through life. Closer to the river and the churches, vendors sold delicious or colourful things. Their lives were loud and joyous and sad. But the ballet-goers tiptoed over that sleeping layer of society, murmuring and _hurrying_. It wouldn't do to make the mob jealous.(6) There simply wasn't any sympathy involved on either side—that was reserved for that fiction-house, up there.

The Théâtre des Champs-Élysées loomed, illuminated. Crowley basked.

There were circling carriages and a few automobiles. Crowley wasn't entirely comfortable around either, horses being disagreeable and the machines being plain untrustworthy and undoubtedly diabolical. The lampposts radiated a luxurious glow through the warm air, outposts beckoning people into the obviousness of the foyer. Crowley was often an observer, but tonight everything seemed especially muted and beneath him. Even the occasional shocking camera burst became background to his thoughts dwelling gratefully on nothing.

Somewhere between the first tang of culture freckling his senses and the end of the dreary day, he found himself in the Théâtre's entrance hall. He did some more observing, retreating to the dim-lighted relief of the antechambers. They were the transient meeting place of the secretive Romeos and Juliets of the world. Clandestine business was only done in the open. It was then that a walking wedding cake strolled femininely past him.

Try as he might, the demon could never understand why wives always wore champagne-coloured evening dresses to match their husbands' drinks. These women didn't bustle; they glided over the lovely floor like a glissando, accustomed to the glamour of the hall and of themselves. All the people sparkled in the press of light from clusters of candles held aloft by beautiful, golden, featureless women around the staircases. Indistinct knots of people laughed in the balconies, and there were intense, intimate discourses over art or war here and there. The air shimmered with society, laughter, and refinement.

As for the chandelier, Crowley thought it kind of sucked, as far as floating fire hazards went.

The new theatre exuded a decadence and an ultimate art which was delicious, whether the mingling mass was aware of it or not. Social circles wheeled like the gears of a clock, gold and lifeless, everything and nothing. Crowley didn't go in for the big sins so much, these days—better just to chuck things into the gears and hope they stuck. He was far more content to indulge and hope that that was immoral enough to erase his guilt about slacking off. But that _wasn't_ his present course, and he was worn out from the strain.

In Paris, high people were as unconscious of low people _now_ as they had been before the Revolution. The only difference was that today they had to use sympathy as a disclaimer. Then they could go on wading in the opera and ballet until they shone with it. He'd been doing a lot of observing, trying to catch up, filling in gaps with, admittedly, more over-rationalization than not.

Crowley approved of Sergei Diaghilev's little Parisian Russian company. He'd heard its star dancer was quite the sensation. Something about a fawn at teatime.(7) Anyway, what had turned Crowley onto them was, again, Mr. Korsakov's suite being performed the last time the demon was in Paris . . . .

Ah—there was the manager himself. It wasn't hard to figure out he was distinguished, given the way everyone spun around to shake his elegent, gloved hands. Movement rippled in his wake. Diaghilev wasn't dressed very differently from the rest of the crowd, but somehow he managed to stand out. Deflated opera hat in hand, graceful dancer's gait (despite a slight portliness), and perpetual air of smugness. He grinned in the direction of a haughty-looking and clearly musical man talking with a haughty-looking and clearly nervous dancer. The latter was hailed by a group of admirers(8) but spared Diaghilev a brief, brilliant smile before he was dragged away.

Diaghilev bounced on his feet a little as the other man (concertmaster?) made his way over.

"So," said the impresario. "How is he, you know. Doing?

"Really, Sergei. He is a _performer_. It will be what it will be," he shrugged, but his face betrayed a subtle deviousness. His hair was as slick and shiny as his severe spectacles. He just _looked_ _smart_.

"An artist may excel in many mediums," said Diaghilev pointedly.

The man was unmoved; an old argument. "Your Nijinsky was superb in _Petrushka_. And it is of course a given that _you_ believe his choreography is equally superb." His voice wasn't cutting in the least, oh no. You couldn't exactly accuse him of being jealous or manipulative. Or anything else strictly classified as sinful. Crowley sympathised with the dilemma.

Diaghilev seemed to forget that after so long, looking was staring. He was too occupied with his own quickening thoughts. "Yes. I wonder, though—hm."

"What do you wonder, my dear?"

The impresario was searching for words in the man's face. And Crowley could practically _taste_ how on edge they were. He'd not heard of _Petrushka_ before, but if the angel hadn't mentioned it, then it was probably worth checking out . . . .

Diaghilev rocked back on his heels. Then he sighed and let himself look genuine.

"Honestly, Igor, are _you_ ready for this? _I_ know you're a genius, but you simply haven't the reputation to pull it off, even in Paris, my friend. Not yet, I really don't think. Even at this theatre. Just. Are you sure?"

"Serge. Relax." The man offered a little smile. "It's going to be quite something, and I'm sure the world doesn't think it's anywhere near ready for it. But they're wrong. Just . . . . . There are quietly avoided taboos in my profession, and every couple of decades they're applauded as wonderful new ideas. We're living in a transition. Beethoven had his chorus . . . ."

"And you've your noise, is that it?"

"And _I've_ my oversized orchestra. Really," he murmured, but without any actual malice, "have you _looked_ at the world lately? It doesn't sound like Napoleon marching, very orderly, into Austria. At least that had reason behind it—maybe a little bit diminished, but not, well, devoid of audible sense. _Le_ _sacre_ _du_ _printemps_ only makes sense on paper. _In_ _theory_, if you will."

Diaghilev raised an eyebrow. "Indeed, this audience is positively _crackling_ with nationalism," he said, trying for sarcasm but betraying his bemusement. He placed one graceful hand on the man's shoulder. "For what it's worth," he said confidingly, "I hope it _does_ make a stir. All publicity is good publicity, no two ways about it. For you _and_ me. I'm just making sure you know what you're getting into—but, what am I saying? You obviously do . . . and . . ."

It was difficult for Crowley to resist prying into their brains a little. He just stood there, looking suave.

"You _are_ all right, aren't you—?" he questioned, studying Diaghilev's face.

"Ah, it's nothing," was the reply. The impresario ducked his head a little, an out of place reaction for one of his standing. He slanted a look at the other. "I'm just wondering what's next."

The man tried to swallow inconspicuously. "Another ballet, I expect." Crowley could see him debating further speech. "New, er, dances."

"You know I haven't _really_ danced in a long time," Diaghilev told him, still searching. "Anyway . . . ah, people ought to find the choreography tonight most scandalous, I do think."

"Yes. But they may only say so once they've cleared up their own scandals."

"Well," Diaghilev laughed, but his eyes approached sobriety, "I must say, I'd always thought you were worth liking."

"Monsieur Stravinsky?" someone called.

"Oh, you'd better—"

"I should—"

"Yes. Do go on, Igor Fyodorovich. Don't want to keep your public waiting," Diaghilev tried to grin after him.

"Certainly not." A pause. He opened his mouth but closed it again. Then Igor Stravinsky retreated, disoriented, in the direction of the orchestra wings.

"Right," the impresario muttered. He went to rescue his star dancer from the gaggle holding him captive. Nijinsky appeared extremely thankful for this, and, really, who wouldn't? The young ladies tittered as he left to go backstage.

Crowley couldn't help raising an eyebrow himself at the entire exchange. But, then again, who was he to talk?

The crowd was swirling up the grand staircase and into the theatre proper. The patterns of people were like a crazy river flowing into a holy place, and the ballet was just as holy as the opera. Crowley didn't have a box reserved, per se, but that didn't stop him from strolling unconcernedly into one.(9) He peered out at the audience pouring in. In here all was red and gorgeous as opposed to gold and gorgeous, but the women's dresses were acting as conductors for it, electrified clothing. Out there, the men were black important figures, but in here the colourful women were the focus. Even the men recognised that, as they suddenly took notice of who _was_ on their arm, anyway.

The orchestra was filtering into the pit, which was visible from Crowley's seat. Warming up was inevitably cacophonous, but some of things the horns were doing were making a _racket_. Soon they were tuning, and soon the talking and the lights dimmed to murmurs and afterimages. Well, excepting those that continued talking, those that were still pouring loudly in, those shifting into seats or greeting one another boisterously—argh, Crowley thought of poor concerned Diaghilev and eager Stravinsky and decided all three of them deserved a proper performance, for once. He silenced the lovely mob with a gesture that did drain him, a little. Despite the customary noise, the entire experience was nevertheless a comfortable ritual, and Crowley couldn't help feeling he was saying goodbye to something. He could very well have damned this place to destruction. Only time, weapons, and tempers would tell . . . .

Crowley's eyes reflected greenly in the dark. The women worked their fans like overexcited bats. You'd think it'd be distracting to the performers.

A fermata cradled the sudden silence. Then, stretching out from it, came a high, clear note. The instrument wasn't recognisable, but one didn't want to understand the sound anyway. It was a mesmerising little cluster of phrases that rolled into one another in a strained-sounding register, insistent, fluttery and frantic, but in a thick-tongued kind of way.

Crowley had closed his eyes—and it was so with many people there. They either shut their eyes against the dancers or their ears against the music. Impossible to understand them together; therefore everyone whispered and batted their fans, scanning for Upstanding Patrons. Of the Arts, even. Nobody was a patron of the arts except for a few of the performers. Not the ones in the spotlight, with the solos, and never the creators of any of it. Well, maybe Stravinsky . . .

By now, some woodwinds had entered on wrong notes, which was annoying because now Crowley would be focused on that for the next few minutes. Better now, although the mystery instrument was rushing. And there were too many solos, for a moment, interesting but rather like a –tet of any number in an opera—fun to listen to, impossible to make sense of.

Aha, so there _were_ strings.

Crowley was too preoccupied with listening to the feelings of the humans—always fascinating, at this sort of performance, always just compulsory enough to remind the demon he _was_ above them.(11) Too engrossed, in fact, to notice their actual words. A mutual, bemused muttering brewed. Discordant surges of sound persisted and called and responded, traded off esoteric themes clumsily, like people in back alleys buying and sharpening knives. He was beginning to wish the clarinet would just _can_ _it_—

When it just. Stopped. Even as the proper Parisians were speaking more assuredly to their neighbours. The strange solo slid back into a new, empty silence. Spellbinding. Some more odd intervals dripping in behind it, now. Very hushed, very innocent, but, uh oh, this guy studied with Korsakov, remember, so—

_Zrip_ _zrip_ _zrip_ _zrip_.

"Uh?" said Crowley.

And that did it. The unwarranted scratching strings, too sudden, too bloody _noisy_. Now: people turning in their seats and catching familiar eyes for some kind of affirmation; people leaning forward in disbelief, with an offensive air of haughty amusement; rude pointing; unrestrained female laughter that made Crowley cringe exactly like the . . . yes, _music_ did. He briefly wondered if Stravinsky was enacting some kind of revenge upon unpleasant women's voices.(12) And as the bassoons chugged along beneath the nails-meet-chalkboard chords, the restless audience had clearly had enough.

Groups were getting up, now, calling blatantly across the clamour to make argument—there were people shouting right back. Defenders. The orchestra may or may not have been together. Crowley could just make out Stravinsky's arm beating out beats obstinately. The demon had by now opened his eyes. His fingers were absently on his opera glasses. Indignant bodies hurrying heavily out of their seats; it wouldn't do for nobody to mark their departure. The level of the tiny riot seemed to rise with every aristocrat. Nijinsky himself, in a balcony with Sergei Diaghilev, was yelling steps at the girl dancing herself to death on stage as though he were hurling incessantly adoring roses. The theatre was dim, but Crowley could see how unconfident the impresario looked now. Ashen.

The tide of scandalised audience was overwhelming the aisles, now. Some, tossing ugly retorts behind them like breadcrumbs; most just advancing through the crowd in the quiet, cunning way they did in society. Crowley encouraged the ones protesting the right of art because they caused a stir, not because he agreed with them. He wasn't sure what he believed. After a time, the hum of discord was pleasing, like icy coldness turned hot, or scalding water gone frigid—pain into pleasure.

Well, so much for the after-party. He could've done with an intoxicant or twelve, too.

The Rites of Spring slogged along like sprigs trying and failing to assail frost. Sluggishly vicious, unapologetic progressions that went straight through him. Ugly, total, and dark. It was hard to say whether the orchestra continued playing of their own free will, or at the helpless insistence of the demon still rooted in a balcony up somewhere, but. He couldn't. Stop.

The last of the patrons filing out failed to notice Crowley. This was because he assumed they wouldn't.

centre ----- /centre 

Crowley didn't leave. He was one of the last ones.

The impressive new Théâtre des Champs-Élysées was strange empty. Lights still flooded the hall, but the silence was noisome. Every couple of minutes one fancied hearing the musicians and the dancers having their own private gala—their laughs and clangs and pedal tones echoing from the corridors off the hall. Shiny black footsteps. Tired. Time to hit the sack. Or the taverns.

Crowley didn't leave. It struck him as ridiculous that he'd never thought about loitering in a place like this before—it was so _strange_ empty—and he supposed it had lost some of its infallibility, in his eyes. Anyway, it was soothingly reckless to give in to the impulse, and so he did, looking out at the remains of the theatre through dark lenses as each light was snuffed, one by one.

-----

1. Admiral Sir John Fisher predicted that by October of 1914, Britain would be at war with Germany. After August of 1914, people started at least hearing the man out.

2. Literally, it didn't. "Utopia" means, more or less, "no place."

3. Tchaikovsky died in 1893. His best works were composed near the end of his life.

4. Yeah right. The Gare d'Orsay was a relatively upscale place frequented by discreet political representatives. But it wasn't up to snuff as far as Crowley was concerned.(5)

5. Spies.

6. It wouldn't do to be seen being jealous.

7. He'd heard about it from Aziraphale.

8. Fangirls.

9. It was, incidentally, box number five. Hey, the book was popular. It wasn't as though the angel had forced him to read it(10). . .

10. Yes, he had.

11. Devoted (or at least part-time) fans of common sense will note this is a lie; if anything, Crowley is below them. But from his inverted perspective the words are opposite, and therefore being logical makes no difference. (A principal the demon has applied to many aspects of his life.)

12. . . . Ah. Well, that explained it.

-----

"No! It wasn't . . . the wrong _place_."

"What you mean to say is, it was the wrong time?"

"Yes."

"I'm not sure I understand."

Crowley began to get truly annoyed, but the tide soon receded. He leaned against the arm of his chair and idly rotated the mostly empty glass in his hand. They weren't actually _drinking_ drinking. Yet. "What's not to understand?" he sighed, staring at the glass.

"Well, since when are you so opposed to new things? You like keeping up to date, don't you?" said Aziraphale, who hadn't taken a sip of his own drink yet. Unlike him.

"This was _too_ new. I mean, I don't think they'd quite worked all the kinks out, yet. It wasn't ready. Wasn't refined enough for Paris."

"But I thought you _liked_ the Ballets Russes."

"Damn it, angel, it reminds me of—

"It was just a bit depressing, this time around, all right?"

"Well, art's consolation is that it contains the misery of modern life foreshadowed. Er. Something like that," said Aziraphale, frowning. "It may perhaps have been 'mystery'. . ."(13)

Crowley stared. "I hope you know that's not actually very consoling. Thanks."

And Aziraphale stared back, exasperated. "You're the one complaining! I didn't make you go to hear this Stravinsky fellow. I'm sorry it wasn't a pleasant experience, but what do you expect _me_ to do about it?"

Crowley was determinedly silent for awhile. _Fine_. "I-uh-oh," he mumbled petulantly.(14)

"Oh, honestly, Crowley, you can be such a child sometimes," the angel chided, sampling the wine daintily.

Crowley continued fiddling with his own glass. "The man was clearly deaf when he composed _The_ _Rite_ _of_ _Spring_." He reflected a moment. "Wait. I take that back."

"But how—"

"It was horribly discordant. Oh, you would've _hated_ it." Crowley briefly relished the thought. "You know, I think we should go back, and then you can hear for yourself, Aziraphale . . ."

"Oh, no," he said, paling. "I'm all for keeping an open mind of course but I'm perfectly content with Elgar lately and in any case I don't have to travel you see."

"Uh huh. Distance didn't seem to bother you when St. Petersburg was the only place playing Tchaikovsky."

"Yes, well. You're just upset over this whole affair because you went looking for a bit of escapism and the French failed you."

"The Russians, you mean."

The angel twitched.

If Crowley had been stupid, he would've mentioned ineffability. As it was, he was merely stubborn.

The demon said, "You know who was a forerunner to this idiotic dissonance? Tchaikovsky."

"Nope."

Aziraphale, too, was stubborn.

"Aw, come on, angel," he cajoled. "You were struck by _Pathétique_, weren't you?"

"It was . . ." Aziraphale deliberated a moment. When it came, the word was pronounced lingeringly, savouring its depth. "Painful."

"But I thought you _liked_ Tchaikovsky," the demon mocked.

"I do. But the 6th Symphony _is_ painful, Crowley. Especially if you knew him at all."

Crowley decided to skim delicately over that last. "All right. The point I am trying to make, though, is . . . well . . . did you enjoy it anyway?"

There was an interval between his move and the angel's. Cars plodded mutedly by through hidden, derelict walls. Aziraphale's wallpaper looked like coffee stains on teeth, uneven washes of unintentional mud. His back room was forever a pocket out of time and place where they could spar without distraction. The angel hesitated in this gap, sipping from his glass a bit more. Eventually he grudgingly proffered a "Yes . . ."

"What?" Crowley persisted. "You don't want to admit to enjoying pain? It was your people who decided it was necessary for redemption or whatever." _We were there, I believe._

_And I still dislike it. Sickening._ "Your point, my dear boy?"

Crowley couldn't stop twirling his empty glass—he knew how stupid he looked, but it was inexplicably relieving. Just now, though, he figured it made him look introspective, so that was all right. "After awhile it occurred to me that I was being tortured on purpose." The words rang desperately against the dampening room.

After they died notes' deaths, Aziraphale cautiously countered, "But did you enjoy it?"

Later, around the time Crowley was embarking upon a reluctant love affair with automobiles, he broke down and bought the _Rite_ _of_ _Spring_ record—he never listened to it, instead letting the plants do the musical critique. They were used to listening to Handel.(15) They died.

Well, perhaps outright death was putting it the wrong way. What they did was dry and disintegrate, bruise and blacken. Got so terrified of themselves they didn't care about being terrified of their master anymore. Or about anything, for that matter. So, back to what they could handle.

"Do you know, I don't think I've ever liked anyone better than Handel," Crowley said presently. The _angel_ couldn't call him on evasion.

"Oh, come now, that's not true—"

"Really, Aziraphale," said the demon, putting on his earnest face. "Think about it. It just doesn't . . . _can't_ get old because it's so blessed repetitive anyway. It's already boring."

He looked at Crowley oddly. "Interesting," he said. "But what about that fiasco when _The Musick for the Royal Fireworks_ premiered? Surely you—"

"Oh, yes. Tragic." But with that many oboes, he thought, the outcome really wasn't surprising.(16)

Then Crowley shrugged. "If it's not Baroque, don't fix it," he said.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. "I do believe you've just canceled yourself out."

"Oh, can it. It's _clever_." Crowley grumbled, "Let me have my fun."

"So, I'm here for you to poke fun at, is that it?"

"Yes, basically," he snapped, getting fed up.

He knew in his semblance of a heart that this new instability was bound to surface eventually, but he'd hoped it wouldn't dare to show its face around the angel. He knew it was better if it _did_ but . . . .

He wondered if his paranoia was ever going to rub off on Aziraphale. The demon supposed he thought and stressed enough for both of them, quietly, leaving Aziraphale to do the actual fretting. Only ever trivial worries for the angel. That was the rule.

Crowley hoped Aziraphale wouldn't try too hard to understand him this time. Crowley felt spiders in the nooks between cabinets and little irritations flashed out at him—the angel's folded pink hands, the angel's silent back room, the angel's "understanding" him, the way he was hogging the alcohol, and, oh, could Crowley go on . . . .

Aziraphale's overall angelicness.

"So . . ." Aziraphale hazarded. Crowley glared moodily past his sunglasses, whether at his still-empty glass or at Aziraphale was impossible to tell. It was making the angel increasingly uncomfortable, and the demon had to be aware. "Hem. Other than the ballet, how is Paris faring? It's so lovely there this time of year. Did you go to any exhibitions? We really ought to conduct more of our meetings in cultural places. The better to understand what educated people are adhering to these days, of course—that goes without saying . . . The French high society is as, ah, self-assured as ever, I take it?" He waited for a response but the demon was determinedly leaking sullenness. "Look, Crowley, I don't know—"

"Yeah," came the belated reply. Aziraphale _hoped_ it was belated.

"I know . . . you're feeling a bit let down," he tried, studying Crowley as though trying to discover where in his human body the demon had hidden himself. "But really I shouldn't worry about it. This movement's bound to loose its energy . . . you know how these things are . . . At least one can always count on popular music . . . ? People, broadly, tend to have a notion of what sounds pleasant and intelligent."

"There are humans; there's no people."

"Well . . . just be thankful you aren't one, then. They may be occasionally, er, misguided, but you can't argue with the fact that they _do_ have their moments. Anyway. There's really no reason to be overly concerned with what the current fads are—they rarely amount to anything _more_ than fads. Really, we're not missing all that much . . . They are more or less bound up in the Ineffable Plan as much as we are. And you . . ." Perhaps if he . . . "And you really oughtn't blame yourself so much, my dear. To put it frankly, it doesn't seem to matter how well we do our jobs. In the end, it's the humans who have the free will, and it's their own choosing . . ."

The demon's eyes wrenched sharply to him. Crowley's tone bit at his words: "You simply refuse to understand me at all. Sometimes. Sometimes . . . I simply just bloody well hate you, Aziraphale." He'd caught a whiff of accelerando and was riding with it, now. Words gone tumbling, all over the place. "I waited until everybody else was gone. Wanted to hear the end. It didn't. End, I mean. So obviously I stayed longer. It sounded horrible—do you know we're about to witness a really hideous war? Blame it on me, I _implore_ you, because it's my fault, all right? You're going to anyway, but I'm thinking that maybe if I give you permission you'll leave me alone about it and honestly despise me for it, I—" Whatever was running crazy counterpoint in his head seemed to cut him off. Aziraphale was used to Crowley's more or less centennial vents and supposed he was due a doozy of an outburst after sleeping through last century's. Aziraphale had to make himself think it wasn't anything out of the ordinary, he was so taken aback. "And hasn't it occurred to you that maybe, that just maybe, I have other friends for drinking with?"

_. . . No._

"These stupid bloody humans just refuse to understand themselves. I can't believe I help with that. They _do not need_ my help, you know. They sit and listen to their noise until the place burns down and wonder why." He stopped.

_Oh, Crowley._

Aziraphale wondered if his pessimism had finally rubbed off on Crowley. He felt curiously penitent for _some_ reason. He supposed it simply saddened him to think of Crowley ever failing to buoy _him_ up. And not in the sense of positives and negatives—just direction and sanity. Just the knowledge that there was somebody else to consider in everything, and who was considering him.

He supposed it had to do with Crowley's general . . . well, _Crowley_-ness.

Before Crowley could become properly embarrassed, the angel saved him the trouble.

"This all sounds rather like that opera in the book about the Opera," said Aziraphale, so kindly and discreetly that it was uncomfortably audible. "_You_ know."

"Pardon?" said Crowley. _Huh?!_ "_Oh_. Yes. _Don_ Juan, you mean, I believe. I guess so." Not so far from the truth, after all, Monsieur Leroux . . .

Aziraphale reached over and filled Crowley's glass for him.

"Oh. Thanks."

"Of course."

Crowley unhurriedly drank half of the bloody liquid, then set his glass beside Aziraphale's on the table.

-----

13. It was "secret."

14. For all of you who have never been teenagers, that's "I dunno," in English.

15. The Water Music really is an effective substitute for actual water. But only if you're a demon.

16. Reportedly, two dozen. If you've ever heard more than two oboes in unison, you can properly appreciate this.

-----

The sun shone. He mentally darkened his sunglasses a shade.

The next day found Crowley at St. James', where spring had sprung, and where the phrase must have originated, it was so suddenly green and teeming there. It wasn't just in the white blossoms scattered unexpectedly or the intoxicating green smell that felt like what breathing was supposed to be, and hadn't you missed out in all those sterile winter months? The presence of people, eager and joyful to be out and about, also contributed a fair amount as well and painted an animated diorama. He tried to imagine how that stupid young Russian could possibly see _That_ in _this_. Flutes made of songbird chirped enthusiastically, like they were trying to auction off their voices. Their cheerfulness didn't annoy Crowley so much as their ceaselessness; he sauntered in the direction of the pond where double-reeded ducks complained at everything in a grouchy manner.

His mind was beginning to get cobwebbed with metaphors—a sure sign of approaching lows and brainstorm systems. An uncommonly creative idea occurred to him and he began to ponder musical instruments, animals, and Russia quite aimlessly.(17)

The park was for thinking. Crowley, being terribly old, had far too much to think about, and his penchant for explanations didn't make stopping any time soon any easier.

He spent an obscene amount of time in the park. It was, one supposed, better than zoning out in a restaurant or theatre where people would be disconcerted by his state of pensive petrifaction. But you couldn't faze the British when they set out for a good stroll. Crowley believed the British, if anyone did, knew how to stroll properly, much in the same way that some demons are allegedly born to lurk. What it was that constituted a stroll in his mind he couldn't quite articulate, but it probably had something to do with walking very confidently and gracefully to no place and taking too much time about it.

Crowley, of course, sauntered. That was rather different.

Right now he was sauntering by the duck pond—an unconscious destination, always, but an inevitable one, as well. Now there were ducklings, which took him by surprise every year. They waddled adorably and fluffily toward him, hopeful, and so he hissed at them, enjoying the explosion of down created by their retreat.

Paris was teeming with fascinating people, whether they were fashionable or not. St. James' was teeming with waterfowl and no fashionable people whatsoever. English fashion was downright sparing, these days, and for all Crowley only really wore black, he certainly didn't begrudge society their stylistic freedom—people's plain pale clothes on these spring days hurt his head in the way that a bright overcast day does. He liked seeing colours.

The bench, there. The memory of Aziraphale smiled obliviously up from it.

_They are more or less bound up in the Ineffable Plan as much as we are,_ the angel had said, taking Crowley's discontentment with suspiciously good grace.

And Crowley had thought, Yeah, sure they were. Crowley'd felt an incongruity coming on, too, and, sure enough . . .

_In the end, it's the humans who have the free will, and it's their own choosing . . ._

. . . That what? Crowley could finish the thought in a number of ways. It always baffled him when he forgot that Aziraphale was better at being contradictory than he was.

_You really oughtn't blame yourself so much._

And then there was that. It also baffled him when he forgot that Aziraphale did know him frighteningly well. The demon didn't feel threatened by it because he, too, had more than a few cards up his sleeve when it came to his counterpart. However, he had the unfortunate tendency to chicken out when it came to employing them and just let it all slide. Aziraphale was so very convincing, so _insistent_ that it might actually be a bit dangerous if his persona was ever totally shattered . . .

Like when Aziraphale had said—

Oh, wonderful. He knew he was in a bad way when he started replaying conversations in his head. He considered it no small irony that an angel brought out the worst in him.

Having settled down for a long winter's(18) nap just when Beethoven was really coming into his stride(19), Crowley had missed a number of very interesting political and cultural movements. At least, Aziraphale found them interesting. Indeed, Aziraphale had emerged from the 19th century with a whole new set of passions that still sometimes surfaced in his hobbies and his speech patterns—both of which Crowley, quite unwillingly, had come to know intimately. It irked Crowley, a little, that he wasn't around for it, and he wondered if the angel would have been nearly so adventurous in his artistic pursuits if Crowley had been there to taunt him.

But his slumber was not without interruption. No, it was usually Aziraphale who shook him awake between decade-long naps to drag him along to concerts and plays in a zombie-like state that a) got Aziraphale whatever he wanted on said outings and b) gave him really _weird_ dreams when he fell back asleep, often with running soundtracks. It became so frequent toward the end of the century that he finally gave in and sat through Wilde again and again.(20)

Crowley had to sleep for awhile before dreaming set in, but once it did his subconscious proved itself to be surprisingly elaborate. He supposed that was where living for too long got you. In fact, he had dreamt up an entire alternative history for much of the 1800's which still got a little mixed up with reality in his head, sometimes. He didn't really see the point of trying to keep it all straight or do something drastic like read about it; he figured he could afford to skip a century here and there (what had he done during the 14th, after all?—No, really, what _had_ he done?). It wasn't as though the world was coming to an end.

The ideal spring weather, it is important to remember, includes a lot of necessary rain. It is also of note that this was London. What can be deduced here is that it was, if not drizzly, still somewhat damp and grey around the edges. Much of the premature summer heat the tentative pastel crowds revelled in was radiating thickly from the moist ground. Smells permeated. Too many memories to deal fairly with. And the sky mumbled into overcast as his thoughts turned unpleasant, and he glared half-heartedly.

Crowley hadn't been in Russia at _That_ time in history (if you could call it that). Come to think of it, he'd never really been in Russia at any time. And, later, he managed to stay away from the USSR for nearly its entire duration. That incident in 1960 notwithstanding.

During the Cold War, Crowley was supposed to rile the superpowers up and Aziraphale was supposed to appease them, and neither was supposed to take sides. Of course, Crowley _was_ responsible for SDI—unfortunately he had been covering for Aziraphale at the time. Hell had even given him _another_ commendation, which would've made all of it terribly embarrassing if the angel had ever found out. As it was, though, Aziraphale's aversion to popular culture came so naturally to him that his ears automatically blocked up at the mention of Star Wars, which he associated with the films.(21)

But this was all part of the future, and consequently it couldn't really bother Crowley presently.

Presently, the demon was trying to convince himself that he felt something about another encroaching war (the first one he'd been around for in awhile), conjuring the most tantalising images for reacting to, and still producing nothing. Crowley was prone to detachment—it was the only way to survive life when it went on and on and on—but now he was entrenched to the point of malicious pleasure in it.

He hadn't felt like this since the fourteenth century.

No, that was a lie—he hadn't felt precisely like this since he felt layers of Meaningful settle over Sodom and Gomorrah, and had waited, in his first experience with morbid curiosity, until the time-bomb exploded with damnation and, poof, no cities. Morbid curiosity had shown him a good time, if you looked at it like that. But that was Heaven.

Or that one time when there was the inquisition. The Inquisition. But _that_ was people.

He hadn't touched either of those things. He rarely did. But when you've been slacking off for somewhere around a century, you aren't keen on getting on the bad side of the people who had contacted you and promised you your own _personal_ inquisition if you didn't shape up.

What he didn't understand was how stupid bloody Stravinsky had sensed it. Or if he had, at all. The world was ticking, and the sound underneath the ticking was atonal and violent. Crowley had only shovelled politicians at each other and sat back and waited. But the art had caught on.

There were really three sides: Heaven, Hell, and humanity. Humanity was an art and humanity's arts were humanity.

Crowley knew that, in the long run, art had a greater impact than politics. Lasted longer, affected more people, ultimately fuelled the politics anyway. So it was a little disconcerting when the art started imitating the politics

. . . the wars . . .

because it meant that maybe, just maybe it was the world that was changing and not just people, this time, but the whole world . . .

Crowley took off his sunglasses as shafts of light sifted through the leaves, one by one. He made up his mind to take the angel somewhere, for a change. Elgar, something.

-----

17. After _The Rite of Spring_, Crowley couldn't help following Stravinsky's career. He was wary of getting too close to Stravinsky himself in the same way he would later be wary of the Antichrist—both seemed able to see through him, even down to places he didn't even know about or couldn't remember. To make a long story short, one night the demon ended up at a pub with one of the man's colleagues and drunk enough to start talking about little birds, but mostly about the variety of ways in which strings are annoying. Prokofiev just made mental notes and grinned.

18. In the Russian sense of the word.

19. Something that hadn't bothered Crowley much until he discovered the music industry (often literally) sang his praises in everything they did.

20. Aziraphale believed his victory was all thanks to the threat of Wilde-induced dreams. Clever and circuitous philosophy, when left to fester in _Crowley's_ mind, he suspected, would probably end in his contradicting himself into infinity. Or at least until the angel woke him up again and he did more or less the same thing out loud.

21. Actually, what Aziraphale thought of when he thought of Star Wars was "That war that took place at considerable distance from here absolute _ages_ ago," and, well, to be quite honest with himself, he unfailingly got a bad feeling about it . . .

-----


End file.
